It was strange to see House naked and relaxed, his chest moving evenly with his breathing. Like there was no connection at all between who House was here, in Foreman's bed, and who he was at work. House didn't try to cover up, which Foreman wondered at. The heat in Foreman's body was fading, but he didn't bother with the sheets either. He was taking in House's body, trying to keep his studying glances subtle. He hadn't had the chance, earlier.
It was easy to ignore House's scars during sex. Now they seemed so much more obvious. The bullet graze on House's neck had faded and nearly disappeared by now, and it was mostly hidden by his stubble. The seamed depression in House's thigh, the pucker of the bullet scar on his abdomen, made Foreman feel like House was...not fragile; House would never accept that. But not untouchable, either. Like there was something human under all the armor. Three years with the man was more than enough time for Foreman to learn to disregard House's leg completely, even as he was making allowances for House's range of movement and chronic pain. Giving him his pills was a simple step to avoid House getting bad-tempered when all the exercise caught up with him. Foreman carefully ignored the thought that it was a simple step to keep House from getting up, too. To keep him from leaving.
House didn't pick up his Vicodin right away. He watched Foreman in return, and Foreman didn't know what he was looking for. He tightened his lips and tried to look neutral as House studied his face. It wasn't really Foreman's business if House took the pills or not. Making them available was as far as he cared to go. The rest--all of House's reckless behaviour--was House's responsibility.
Foreman didn't like the feeling of being the slide under House's microscope. He reached for the bottle of lube, which he'd left between House's legs. There was an oily spot on the sheets where the lube had dripped, but not, Foreman hoped, worth fighting over. He turned away again to drop it in the drawer and slide it shut. When he settled on his back, their shoulders pressed together, and his calf brushed against House's. Warm. Foreman was strangely reluctant to move, even though the silence was growing uncomfortable, reminding him all over again of what an idiot he'd made of himself seducing House. Christ, seducing House. Foreman blinked at the ceiling, trying to find his footing again. "If you want to shower," he said, and shrugged awkwardly where he was lying instead of finishing that sentence. The image that popped into his mind--licking warm drops of water from House's throat--was not helpful at all.
no subject
It was easy to ignore House's scars during sex. Now they seemed so much more obvious. The bullet graze on House's neck had faded and nearly disappeared by now, and it was mostly hidden by his stubble. The seamed depression in House's thigh, the pucker of the bullet scar on his abdomen, made Foreman feel like House was...not fragile; House would never accept that. But not untouchable, either. Like there was something human under all the armor. Three years with the man was more than enough time for Foreman to learn to disregard House's leg completely, even as he was making allowances for House's range of movement and chronic pain. Giving him his pills was a simple step to avoid House getting bad-tempered when all the exercise caught up with him. Foreman carefully ignored the thought that it was a simple step to keep House from getting up, too. To keep him from leaving.
House didn't pick up his Vicodin right away. He watched Foreman in return, and Foreman didn't know what he was looking for. He tightened his lips and tried to look neutral as House studied his face. It wasn't really Foreman's business if House took the pills or not. Making them available was as far as he cared to go. The rest--all of House's reckless behaviour--was House's responsibility.
Foreman didn't like the feeling of being the slide under House's microscope. He reached for the bottle of lube, which he'd left between House's legs. There was an oily spot on the sheets where the lube had dripped, but not, Foreman hoped, worth fighting over. He turned away again to drop it in the drawer and slide it shut. When he settled on his back, their shoulders pressed together, and his calf brushed against House's. Warm. Foreman was strangely reluctant to move, even though the silence was growing uncomfortable, reminding him all over again of what an idiot he'd made of himself seducing House. Christ, seducing House. Foreman blinked at the ceiling, trying to find his footing again. "If you want to shower," he said, and shrugged awkwardly where he was lying instead of finishing that sentence. The image that popped into his mind--licking warm drops of water from House's throat--was not helpful at all.